Love's Portrait
by Dragon of Silver
Summary: AU. Slash. Angel's a kind and shy artist from a big family who is in desperate need for money. Spike is a popular model who hates the press and wants a change. While Angel is sketching Spike for a competition, they become... close.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** The rest of this story will not be put up until I've finished my other story. This is just a teaser to capture your interest.

Spike's car:  
www .modernracer .com/features/detroit2004pics/detroit2004pic2 .jpg

* * *

**Chapter One**

Liam 'Angel' Angelus knew he could ignore the knocking on his door, and the yelling that was coming through his thin wooden door. "Angel," it called out, "I own the building, Buddy, ya can't hide from me in there!" It was true, he couldn't, but it never hurt to try.

It wasn't like Angel wouldn't pay his rent, he would. It was just at that moment he didn't have the money on him, and he may as well admit it to himself, he probably wouldn't have it anytime soon unless he went out and did something drastic.

The Superintendent knew that Angel would pay, which was why he didn't press the boy too much. He was an honest kid, and would have the money soon, or would work off his debt, as he had a few times.

It was a fairly expensive apartment, if you could call it an apartment. It was really more like a large storage shed with an almost invisible kitchen. The roof was high enough for two stories, but there wasn't a second story. There was, however, a concrete ledge that stuck out of the wall about half way up.

On it was a bed, a coffee table and a lounge chair. There was a metal ladder, which was how Angel was able to get up there. The walls were grey, the kitchen was peach and everything on the protrusion were dark colours, which made them stand out. You couldn't see the grey of the walls though, since they were all covered in paintings.

Angel lived alone, and that was how he liked it best. Despite the size of the place, there really wasn't enough room for a second person. This was because of the painting easels that had been placed around the room, making it more like a maze then anything else.

He did have a dog, so that was some form of company. Normally pets weren't allowed in the building, apart from goldfish, which didn't make a mess. Angel was the kind of guy who you didn't want to deny him anything when he asked for something, because he was so nice that he always did favours for people when they needed them.

So the Super had permitted him a dog. Her name was Peaches, and she a Basset Hound so she wasn't as energetic as most dogs, but still enjoyed her exercise. Angel took her out every day to walk blocks and blocks down the street to an art museum.

It wasn't the biggest museum in the city, but in Angel's opinion it was the best. The art there stirred something in him, and almost drive him to keep painting and drawing instead of getting a proper job. He knew that probably the best thing for his financial situation, but it was good for him.

Joyce, the owner of the museum, was very nice was had taken the role of the mother to Angel when he had moved out. She showed him how to live in a big city rather then a small town.

He always came around at the same time and she was waiting for him outside the shop with a smile and a coffee in her hand for him. That day was no exception. She smiled, handed Angel the coffee, bent down and patted Peaches.

Joyce straightened up. "Good morning, Angel."

"Good morning, Charlie." Angel joked, mimicking the girls from Charlie's Angels. Joyce laughed, Angel smiled a bit, but it was strained slightly. Joyce couldn't help but notice.

"Is there something worrying you, Angel? You seem stressed. Is it money again?" she asked sympathetically, with genuine concern obvious in her voice.

They couldn't go into the museum with Peaches since dogs weren't allowed, so they were restricted to walking the street. It was okay because Peaches and his short legs tired out easily and he would sleep while Angel and Joyce went in later. This of course meant that Angel would have to carry the dog home. It was his form of weight lifting and because of it he had rather muscly arms.

All in all Angel was incredibly attractive. The perfect way to describe him would be 'Tall Dark and Handsome' and he seemed to be the embodiment of the saying. With dark hair, dark eyes and a very hot body he could have had anyone he wanted, but he chose not to.

"The only thing I can think of to do is sell my paintings." Angel explained.

Joyce shook her head. "Well, you can't do that."

He threw his hands up into the air. "Thank you. I knew you would understand. I just can't bring myself to sell any of my own. Some people request portraits and things from me of loved ones, and they pay me to do them, but they don't come from me like the others do. They all lack something so I can stand to part with them, but-"

"But you can't sell any you've put your soul into." Joyce finished. She understood completely. Well, I know why people want to buy your portraits, they're beautiful, but if you do that all the time you won't be able to find the time to draw your own things."

Angel sighed. He usually took everything in his stride, but this was really getting to him. He'd missed rent a few to many times to make it up by working, and he really couldn't afford to loose that apartment. When he'd first came to the city he'd locked around and couldn't find another place big enough for all his things.

And by things, he meant his paintings.

Joyce stopped walking and Angel looked at her, frowning. Then she started walking again, faster then before. Noticing his look, she offered an explanation. "I have just the thing that will help you, if you chose to do it of course."

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Angel slowed down, falling behind Joyce. "Joyce, for the last time, I am _not_ posing nude so students can paint me!"

Peaches made a noise that sounded like a whine, and when Angel looked down her tail started wagging. "No. No posing nude." Her tail stopped wagging and she whined again.

Joyce laughed. "No, don't worry. I've given up trying to get you to do that anyway. I'll show you what it is." She took the leash off Angel and tied it to a pole outside a coffee shop. Inside there was a notice board, which had a lot of things pinned up on it. One was a tan coloured piece of paper announcing a drawing/painting competition.

According to the notice, the competition wasn't only judged on the person's talent, but also on the person it was done on. It was to be of a celebrity, and he was allowed to use a picture as a reference if he needed to. Extra points would be given if he could get the actual person to pose for him.

It could be done in any medium he wanted. Paint, pencil, oil paint, chalk, charcoal, water colour, the options were wide open, but he decided not to choose what to do it with or on until he knew who he was going to do.

Since his portraits always lacked depth, he knew he couldn't get it done satisfyingly from a photo. It had to be of someone he thought was attractive, someone who had a certain look that drew him to them. Then he would be able to put soul into it.

* * *

William 'Spike' Pratt wiped the artificial sweat off his bare chest. He had just done _another_ photo shoot. He had been modelling for a while now, and he was sick of it. Sure, he'd been the top model for his whole career, his status as the sexiest man in twenty years had been constant for ages, and he was fed up. 

He was in a rut. He truly was, and there was no possible way to get out of it that he could see. He stuck on a tight, black t-shirt, a blue shirt that brought out his bright blue eyes, which were somewhere between the colour of an aquamarine and a sapphire.

Then he put on his signature piece of clothing. It was a black leather jacket, which went down to his ankles and had been his father's. He'd never met his father, as he was just a one-night stand with his mother, but he'd left his jacket behind. Spike had found it when he was five, and since then he'd never gone a day without wearing it.

He had pictures of himself when he was younger, with a leather jacket way to big for him. It had been the first day he had worn it, and he'd thought he was so grown up.

There was a knock on his door, and Spike rolled his eyes. It was his manager. It was bound to be. Ethan Rayne had been corrupted by money long before they had met, but he'd been Spike's manager since before he had become famous. When they were back in England.

"You can come in, Rayne."

Rayne came in, with a smile on his face. "That was_ great_!"

Coming in behind Rayne was Andrew Wells. He was blonde, and a flaming homosexual, but still firmly in denial. Rayne had taken him on as sort of an intern, he was learning the tricks of the trade, and Rayne had agreed because Andrew's extremely rich and powerful father had paid him.

So far the little flamer was useless, and all he seemed to do was suck up to Spike and kiss his arse, feet and anything else Spike wanted to be kissed. Literally. So far Spike had been using him as a sort of a 'sex slave', but it was okay because Andrew didn't mind. Actually the kid was just stoked he was sleeping with someone famous.

Spike had made him sign contract after contract swearing he wouldn't go to the press and tell them about the… involvement they had together. Not even Rayne knew about what they did, and usually he knew everything that was going on in his life before he did.

Andrew took Rayne's praise as his cue to start kissing Spike's feet. "It was really good. You looked soooo sexy with that sweat." He blushed and looked at his feet. "You're amazing."

Rolling his eyes, Spike answered with an exasperated and tired "I know." He decided to change the topic before they really pissed him off. "On the way back we have to stop off at The Fruit Bowl." The Fruit Bowl was a very small, but very nice little gay bar on the edge of the city.

It was out of their way, since they lived very close to the middle of the city, but it was worth it. Everyone needed to have someone they could open up to, and this person for Spike was Willow, the bartender and owner of the aforementioned bar.

People often said that The Fruit Bowl wasn't big or important enough to have a title, but Willow, being the bubbly and quirky person she was believed her bar should have a name. It was a funny one too, suiting her perfectly. She was great and Spike regretted not being able to see her very often. Actually it was only a few times a month.

It took a while before they got there, but when they did Spike got out of his Astin Martin before it stopped completely. His A.M was a green-silver colour, and he liked the fact that James Bond'd had an early version of it. Rayne had a Mercedes, which Spike hated, and Andrew didn't have a car, which Spike thought was hilarious and always laughed when he saw the small bicycle parked between the two cars.

The Fruit Bowl was small, tastefully decorated and had a very comfortable atmosphere. Not many people were around and that was how Spike liked it. When he entered a redhead with a cheeky grin greeted him. "Hey, Spiky" she said from her position behind the bar, "What's shakin'."

Spike smiled, and that in itself was a rare thing. "A martini if you have one."

"Only for you on your special day." The smile on her face faded at Spike's confused look. It was an honest look of 'I-honest-to-god-have-no-bloody-clue-what-you're-on-about'. She frowned a bit, but her voice still seemed to be upbeat. "You've really forgotten, haven't you?"

"Forgotten what?"

"Your birthday, silly. It's today." She sighed, but then brightened. "Oh! I have something for you! Tara." A mousy little waitress, who had been cleaning one of the tables, scampered over. "Tara, could you go and get a parcel waiting for me down the road? It's just that I know you're going there sometime today to pick up your mail, so I thought you could, maybe, get mine too." Willow gave an uncertain and shy smile to Tara.

Tara gave her a small smile of her own. "Yeah, sure. D-Do you want m-me to go now?" At Willow gave her a nod and she walked off with a smile.

"You like her." Spike sing-songed, and Willow playfully whacked him in the arm. "Can I watch?" This time she whacked him on the arm seriously. "Ow! I was joking!… Okay, so maybe I wasn't, but you can't hold it against me. I'm a guy. It's what we do, gay or not."

Willow rolled her eyes.

"Hey, do you have a bin around here somewhere?"

"Yep." Willow ducked under the bar and then came back up with a rectangular wicker basket. Spike took a crumpled envelope out of his pocket and chucked it into the bin. "What was that?" She asked.

Spike shrugged. "Just some mail I got. My manager just sort of threw it at me and told me it was worthless."

"And you believed him? No offence to Rayne, but he's a jerk-off, okay? Since when do you believe anything he says?"

Sighing, Spike explained. "When he suggests that I wouldn't like it, it just means he bloody well won't let me do it." There was a very loud car horn outside. "And that means time's up." He leant over the bar and pecker her on the cheek. "I 'av to go."

"I'll mail you're present to you. Happy birthday! Don't let Rayne ride you to hard, and don't ride Andrew to hard, okay?"

"Sure." He left and Willow smiled. She fetched the envelope out of the bin and saw that it had been opened and re-sealed, probably by Rayne. She opened it and read it over. She smiled. The guy who had written it, Angel, seemed smart, witty and very nice. He also had lovely penmanship.

This was exactly what Spike needed. Leaving the bar unsupervised, Willow went around the back to her small office, if that's what it could be called, and grabbed a pen and paper. Flipping the envelope over, she copied the address on the back onto the front of a new one. She would write this Angel fellow back.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I am so, so sorry for the long time between updates. Motivation for this story seems to come in short bursts if frenzied writing and then noting at all for a while. I am so, so sorry for the long time between updates.

Thanks to **SakuraSyaoran4eva **who's my new beta for this story. I'm sure the improvement in chapters is painfully noticable ;)

* * *

Spike sat quietly on his bed, playing his guitar. He was just making it up as he went along, and it, shockingly, sounded pretty good. It was a slow, sad song that eventually picked up speed and became angry.

He had a habit of getting lost in his music, and also a habit of making it sad and angry.

The song went on for ages, which was really much longer then any song should go for. His fingers had scabs on them from the times he had played in the past, and he played until his fingers bled, just because he could. The guitar was stained with layers of blood.

There was a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table next to him, and he eyed it occasionally. Most of it was gone but he was happy to say he hadn't drunk it all in one night. He had drunk a lot though. It was the only way he could really play his guitar. Sure, he could do it when he was sober, but to him it always sounded too mechanical.

There was a knock on his door and Spike closed his eyes for a second before rolling them behind his eyelids. Leaning over to the table he pushed 'stop' on the CD/cassette player he had been using to record himself playing. "Come." He said, slurring slightly.

Andrew poked his head around the door. "Uh, Spike? M-Mr. Rayne wants to see you downstairs." Spike just nodded, to drunk to even get aroused by Andrew's vulnerability. He stood, swayed ominously, and then managed to walk normally out of the room.

Well, normal enough for a drunk anyway.

The balcony and staircase leading down to the other room were made of metal and glass. Everything had a 'modern', sterile, and cold feel to it. Spike hated it and was thankful for the little freedom he'd been given so he could decorate his bedroom the way he wanted it.

Rayne was down in the entrance hall, looking furious and with a dangerous glint in his eye. He had his hands in his pockets and a threatening smirk on his face. "And here he is." He sneered to the person standing in the doorway.

Spike, however, didn't seem able to do anything. The man standing in the doorway was so incredibly stunning. He wore a loose T-shirt, which was the perfect tightness to give the suggestion of an absolutely fabulous body underneath without actually showing it, like Spike's tight blue one did. That alone had Spike drooling.

"Bloody hell." He breathed.

"Hey, I'm Angel…" Spike stared at him blankly so he added with a roll of his eyes, assuming correctly that Spike hadn't read it. "The guy who wrote the letter." He put his hands in his pockets and kept his eyes on the model, who was at the moment descending the stairs drunkenly, stumbling on the last step.

Angel rushed forward and caught Spike before he hit the ground. "Thanks." Spike said before looking at Rayne. "You can bugger off. I don't need a bodyguard." Rayne sent a hateful smirk at Angel before leaving with Andrew in tow. "Sorry 'bout him."

"Is he always like that?"

"Nuh, he just hates people who are nice. No idea why."

They settled on the bottom of the large staircase and Angel took in the celebrity. High, defined cheekbones and brilliantly blue eyes. His skin was pale and clear, but he wasn't fond of the heavy eyeliner or the makeup expertly covering up the bags under his eyes.

"Sorry. I was upstairs drinking."

"I can kind of tell." He put a hand on Spike's shoulder as the bleached blond put his head in his hands. "I can come back later if you'd prefer it."

"I'm sobering up, it's fine. Why are you so stubborn about … whatever this is?"

Angel sighed and retracted his hand as he felt the muscles tense up. Spike obviously didn't like being touched too much "Frankly, I'm a poor artist." Realizing what he'd just said, he elaborated. "I mean, I'm good at it but I don't like selling my stuff."

"Mate, I like art but I'm not giving you any money."

"Oh no, that's not what I meant. I want to paint or sketch you for a competition. I could do it from a photo, but I don't think I'll be able to get enough depth from one. I need you to model for me." He saw the look on Spike's face and knew he needed to convince him a bit more. "Isn't it boring doing the same thing over and over? Why not branch out?"

Spike narrowed his eyes at Angel for a second. "Right then. You've got yerself a deal."

"You're not going to ask about money, or anything else?"

He gave Angel a manic grin, clearly showing the extent of his drunkenness. "Nope. 'S the day after tomorrow good for you?"

* * *

Angel packed up another easel and threw it in the pile with the others. He didn't care for the easels as much as what he kept on them. The paintings were all leaning up against one wall, overlapping each other with the larger ones against the wall and the smaller ones leaning against the bigger few.

It was the afternoon, and Spike should have been there hours ago. He hadn't asked the guy to come in early, since Angel knew he would be hung over, so it was twice as rude for him to be late. To be honest Angel didn't mind, as it gave him time to tidy up.

He would have tried to clean the concrete floor, but it would have been pointless since it was stained with splatters of old paint. Whenever he was bored, Angel would draw up designs for things he could paint over it.

In the small kitchen Angel put on a pot of coffee for when Spike finally decided to show up.

There was a knock on the door and before Angel could tell the person they could come in, it opened. Spike strutted in with a pair of dark glasses on and a Starbucks coffee in his hand. Angel felt a little put out that he had made coffee for nothing, but forced himself to keep from commenting.

"Got anywhere I can put this?" Spike asked, holding up his cup.

"If it's full, you can put it on the bench, and if it's empty there's a bin under the sink."

He grabbed a few things from a chest in the corner while Spike went into the kitchen. There was some rattling around. "Did I interrupt your coffee making?" He asked when he saw the coffee pot.

"No." Angel responded distractedly. "I had it ready for you and your hangover, but I should have known you'd take care of it yourself."

Spike felt a bit guilty for a second, and then touched. No one usually went to so much trouble to do anything like that for him, so he felt obliged to have it. He took the pot off and filled his empty Starbucks cup before putting the lid back on and leaving the cup on the bench. He'd take it home with him and reheat it.

"Well, you shouldn't have bothered. Coffee's easy to get, there're shops everywhere."

He walked over to where Angel had his head in the chest. "I had it here the day before yesterday." The artist mumbled. Spike crouched next to him and Angel saw the curious look that he had on his face. "The photo I found in the magazine that wanted to make me want to do you."

"Do me?"

"For the competition." Corrected Angel, without a hint of a blush or sign he got the insinuation. It was a nice change, Spike mused, from the people who would fall over him and turn into a pile of goo at the slightest innuendo.

Angel pulled out a page that had been ripped out from a magazine. It was of a large formal event, and the main focus was of an actress who had just stood up to claim an award of some sort. Spike was in the background, tables away, so you could only just recognize him.

He was leaning back in his chair with a smoke in his mouth and was giving a very intense look to the person opposite him, while giving the two-fingered salute.

Spike shrugged as a tinge of colour appeared in his cheeks. "He was telling me I couldn't smoke in there. If I want a fag, I'm bloody well going to have a fag… can I have a fag?" He smiled at Angel's deep chuckle.

"Yeah, we can go to the roof. If you smoke in here I'll probably be killed by the Super."

So Angel grabbed a few things and they headed up to the roof, where Spike leant against the door to insure no one would be able to come up and interrupt them. Angel sat down on the roof ledge, notebook and pen in hand.

"Do you mind looking at that building over there for a while?" He motioned towards it. "I'd like to just get a rough profile of you, for a reference later on."

Spike shrugged and stared at the boringly grey building. "I've never been drawn before, do I need to stay still and not talk like with photo shoots?"

Angel looked up from his pad and frowned. "No you can talk and move, just keep looking in that general direction." He gestured towards it again.

Digging into the deep pockets of his leather jacket, Spike pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and offered the packet to Angel. "You smoke?"

"Not normally." He said, not taking his eyes off the paper. His hand was constantly moving the black ballpoint pen along the lined pad. Joyce had always frowned on him for using pens and lined paper for rough drafts, but Angel figured that it was pointless in changing something that worked so well.

Spike, who was still leaning against the door, nodded and started smoking.

"Are you really not allowed to talk during photo-shoots?" Angel asked suddenly after a few minutes of silence.

"Yeah."

Angel jumped as his pocket started vibrating. He put his pen and pad down before fishing in his pocket for the muted phone. Spike watched him and raised an eyebrow at the mobile's style, or rather the lack-there-of.

Both of Angel's eyebrows went up when he saw the number of who was calling. "Hang on, I've got to take this." He wandered off around to another part of the roof with the phone to his ear and his other hand in his pocket. Spike put the cigarette out under his heavy heel and pulled out another while wandering over two where the notepad was.

"Bloody hell." Apparently the drawing was only a rough one, but to Spike it looked pretty good. It was an outline of his head, nose and his eye, which was extremely detailed. There were several lines floating around, because it was a draft in pen, and there were a few faint dotted lines to show the shapes of his head.

Angel came around the corner with a dull look in his eyes and a slight frown on his face. "You have to go. I'll call you to make a time when you can come again, but right now you need to go."

Spike frowned and hooked his thumbs into his pants, momentarily pissed off. "And why should I do that? Last time I bloody checked I was the boss of me, not you." He stepped on the cigarette butt and crushed it into the ground with a dramatic flourish. "What's got your knickers in a twist anyway?"

"Damn it, Spike. I _don't_ owe you an explanation."

Then Spike's phone rang. He pulled it out of his jeans and slid the top up to open it. "Spike here." He frowned. "Well, what happened?" He listened for a minute then slid it closed, turning to face Angel. "I gotta go… but it's not because you told me too." With that he thundered down the stairs and Angel faintly heard him exclaim something along the lines of 'Sodding pouf'.

The artist stayed on the roof, putting his hands on the ledge and sighing. From above, he saw Spike get into his car and drive away, leaving skid marks on the road.

Angel swore under his breath then looked around to make sure nobody had heard him.

* * *

In his car, Spike was swearing openly while he turned up his radio almost as high as he could stand it and lit another cigarette.

Speeding along the road, Spike ignored several red lights and cut a number of people off. Occasionally he would flip people off as he cut past them, but really didn't do anything else until he got to his destination. The hospital loomed over him like a monster. He had always hated them, but he had to go for Willow's sake.

He ran into the building and up to the reception. "Ah, you must be Mr… Bloody?" She said, or rather asked. Spike nodded at the fake name. "Your friend had been expecting you, she's on the second floor at the far end."

Spike bolted up the stairs, not bothering with the elevator. He slowed down a bit as he reached the hallway and spotted the redhead leaning against one of the hospital doors with her hands over her face.

"Will." He whispered to her and promptly received two armfuls of crying bartender. "I couldn't understand you on the phone. What happened?"

"T-Tara. S-She was sh-shot in the neck."

Spike tightened his arms around her. "It'll be okay, Luv. She'll be okay."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **I stole a line from a movie, but it's just because it's such a brilliantly crafted line that I had to have it. So, just as a completely unnecessary precaution, I'm pointing out that don't own it.

Thanks again to **SakuraSyaoran4eva**. If I had any money I would start paying her just to be able to give her a pay-rise,

* * *

Angel stood in the middle of his apartment not really knowing what to do. His stepfather was dropping by and, to greatly understate it, Angel didn't like his stepfather much or at all for that matter. It wasn't just because he felt the arrogant Quentin Travers was wrong for his mother, but mainly because he was twofaced and very bigoted.

Sighing, Angel went to the kitchen, grabbed a teabag and then went to empty the kettle of the coffee he'd made for Spike. There was nothing in the pot. Angel frowned for a moment but shrugged it off before washing the pot out and then putting the water on to boil.

Dropping the teabag into the cup, he climbed up the cold ladder to his room, almost collapsed into the brown squishy chair and rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. He really didn't want to have this meeting with his stepfather, but the bastard had rung once he'd gotten into town so Angel couldn't use an excuse to get him not to come.

Angel grabbed the book off the table next to the chair and then put his feet on the end of his bed. He had to try and relax before Quentin got there otherwise he'd loose his head, and that could only end badly. It was an interesting book, and it sucked him in to the point where he didn't hear the door open, or notice the man standing in his apartment until he'd been there for roughly seven minutes.

"Good book, Liam?"

Angel looked at Quentin blankly before replying with a short and cutting, "Yes."

"It's not another Vampire Romance story is it?" Quentin said mockingly. He knew that Angel found Vampires and all supernatural creatures fascinating. Being the man that he was, Quentin didn't hold with such nonsense.

"So what if it is? I'm the one reading it, not you." He nodded at the stove. "Tea." Angel watched Quentin go into the kitchen and smiled. If the man had something to occupy his mouth and hands, then his side of the conversation would involve much less talking and more focusing on other things, which Angel didn't mind so much.

"Why are you here anyway?" Angel asked, looking down on his stepfather from his high perch.

"It's your brother."

"Which one of the four?"

"William." Replied Quentin, who had a thing for using everyone's full name rather then their nicknames. William 'Ford' Angelus, nicknamed after being conceived and born in a Ford car, was nineteen years old and the middle child of the six Angelus kids.

Angel straightened up. Anything to do with Ford would instantly get the interest of anyone in the family. Ford was sick, and his health was a constant concern for everyone.

"He's taken a turn for the worst and your mother got a call last night from one of his friends. Apparently he believes that as he's dying soon it gives him the right to shoot someone." His face twisted into a scowl. "Someone at a gay bar."

Quentin's tone made it apparent he felt anyone who swung that way deserved to be shot, Ford included.

"Come on, Quinn," Angel smirked as his stepfather winced at the nickname. "We both know that's not the reason why you're here. Mum gave you a job to do and now you're pawning it off on me."

A slightly frightening smile spread across Quentin's face. "He beat his friend up, sent her to hospital, and now no one can find him. You know him much better. Besides," He smirked coldly, "I don't want to risk being shot at."

Peaches looked at her master's face and huffed angrily at Quentin from her pile of blankets in the corner.

* * *

Spike sat in a chair on one side of Tara's bed. It was good the hospital was close to The Fruit Bowl otherwise there could have been a lot of damage, and luckily the bullet had missed everything important. According to the doctors she would be awake soon as she was now just sleeping from the drugs they'd given her. 

Willow was in the chair on the other side of Tara's bed with Spike's jacket draped over her to keep her warm while she slept. Spike, on the other hand, flicked through the channels on the small television. On one channel he heard "_Spi-_"and then flicked reflectively.

Startled, Spike fumbled with the remote for a second and then turned back. "_-ospital. Sources say that Spike has cancelled photo shoots for the next few days, and hasn't had any scheduled for three days. He obviously isn't tired from working, so a conference was held by his agent Ethan Rayne._"

Spike gawked at the screen as the news desk switched to a recording of a conference with Rayne standing behind a standing podium that had about seven microphones attached to it.

"_I will only be saying a statement and not answering any questions. I also will not be repeating myself._" Rayne took his red-orange tinted sunglasses off slowly, and in a seemingly distressed act rubbed the bridge of his nose. To anyone it would have looked genuine, but Spike knew better.

"_Spike has been busying himself with some 'extra activities'._" Rayne continued. Spike's eyes narrowed at the tone used too highlight the last two words. "_I do not approve of these new…_" He seemed to search for the right word, but the model knew everything he said and did was scripted. "_Hobbies, but he ignored my warnings._"

There was an outbreak of murmurs and loud questions from the press, but Rayne held up a hand to silence them. "_I am aware there was a phone call made by a hospital volunteer, stating that Spike was seen walking into a hospital yesterday and hasn't left. As to whether this is connected to the way he had been conducting himself, I have to say 'no comment'. Thank you._"

Spike growled in his throat. 'No comment', in media-land meant a very definite 'yes', and Rayne knew that fact all too well. He grabbed the remote and changed the channel almost violently, but the show he changed it to really wasn't much better. It was a panel of people talking about the 'Spiked Scandal', as the subtitle explained.

"_He's had a history of these things, hasn't he?_"

"_Yes, I've done some digging and found that he has had problems with drugs when he was a teen._"

Instead of throwing the remote at the screen like he wanted to, Spike turned it off and walked to the window. He opened it, leaned out and was greeted by the sight of dozens of people from the press surrounding the entrance of the U-shaped hospital.

"Fuck wank bugger shitting arse head and hole!" He thumped his fist on the wall as he pulled his head in.

Willow woke with a snort and paid a bit of attention to the jacket before turning her attention onto Tara. She left the jacket over the back of the seat as she stood as to get a better view of her fallen waitress. "Has she woken up yet?"

"Huh?" Spike turned, blinking as he remembered he wasn't the only one in the room with something to worry about. "Oh, right. No she hasn't, but they say she will soon." He grabbed his jacket and went to leave, but stopped at the door. "I'll be on my mobile, not at home if you want to contact me." Before Willow could ask what he was on about he had left.

Spike almost jogged down the halls of the hospital. He planned everything out in his head as he rushed down the halls. First off, he had to get to the ambulance bay, but he didn't know whether there would be any press on the bottom floor, so he had to do it quickly. Then he would bribe the ambulance driv… He bumped into someone coming out of a room.

"Oi, watch where you're going, Wanker." Spike looked up, spotted Angel towering over him and immediately got defensive. "Oh, it's you. Why're you here?" He demanded.

"Visiting a friend of a friend. How about you?"

"Same here. A friend of a friend." Spike shifted his feet as his plan changed. "Look, there's heaps of press outside and I need a way to get out. You didn't happen to park near to the building, did you?"

Angel looked at Spike scrutinisingly and noticed that the eyeliner that he usually wore was smudged and the bags under the model's eyes were clearly visible. All in all, it was a very vulnerable look that Angel found he couldn't resist. Although Spike's face was set into one of indifference, like it didn't matter what the answer was, his eyes seemed to beg for a 'yes'.

He nodded. "Yeah, it's parked close, but I can't take you home."

"Fine with me, Mate."

They managed to get out through the ambulance bay, slip around the edges of the press and get into the car before they were swamped. The car had blacked out windows, so Spike took comfort in knowing that they wouldn't get any decent photos.

"Never would've picked you to have a ride like this."

"It's not mine. It's my stepfather's." said Angel, in a tone that suggested that the conversation should end now. Spike picked up on that attitude since the tension between them was still fairly thick from their argument on the rooftop. However, Spike was never one to go by those tones.

"Was it a divorce or a death?"

"That's none of your business, Spike." His knuckles gripped the steering wheel slightly tighter then normal. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat before speaking again. "I need to go and find my brother. I have a fair idea where he's gone, but I think…" He trailed off, not really wanting to ask Spike for help.

"Can I come along?" Spike asked, deliberately rescuing Angel but at the same time making sure his voice sounded innocent. Out of the corner of his eye Spike saw Angel nod, but other then that made no other sign of acknowledgement, which was very annoying.

Spike turned the radio on and then quickly turned it off when he heard the station it was turned to. He made a face at the radio and heard Angel sigh in annoyance. The eye-roll was almost audible.

* * *

The rave was in full flow when Spike and Angel arrived. Angel immediately went to the shadows around the door and Spike gave him a 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing' look. Angel shrugged and even with his muscled bulk seemed to shrink in the unfamiliar setting. 

Spike shook his head, wanting to make a smart-arse comment at the artist, but knew he wouldn't be heard over the thumping music. He waved to Angel in a dismissive way, feeling no embarrassment about being older then pretty much everyone else there.

'_Photo_' he mouthed to Angel. He got a nod in return and watched Angel search through the inside pockets of his jacket until a small photo was produced. Spike snatched it up and went in search through the huge crowd.

Angel watched Spike mingle with the 'ravers' and noticed that the bleached blonde didn't really walk, he strode. It was a cocky stride that drew attention to him and reflected confidence in every move. Though it was very convincing, it seemed fake to Angel.

Looking around, Angel noticed several people around the doors and windows smoking. He pulled a smoke out of his pocket and had to set it back into its normal shape before lighting up. He saw smoking as a sign of weakness, but he hated himself for thinking that, as it was just another thing Quentin had said that'd stuck.

When Spike appeared at his elbow, holding a boy up by the back collar of his shirt, Angel jumped and quickly dropped the cigarette. Spike's eyes flickered to it but didn't comment instead he just smirked. Angel flushed with embarrassment and held the door open for Spike and Ford.

"Found this. He's pretty out of it though, so he'll need to sleep it off. In the morning he'll need some care, but I'll leave that to you." He held Ford as if offering a gift basket and Angel blinked, completely clueless.

"Care for him how?"

Spike rolled his eyes and dragged the almost lifeless Ford to the car. "I'd better hang around then. I'll stay the night and then look after him in the morning. Simple."

Angel got the feeling that Spike didn't want to go to his own home. He had no idea why but he also got the feeling that Spike would neither mention it nor explain.

It occurred to Spike that Angel must live fairly far under a rock to not have heard about his drug use. He smiled. It was a nice thought that there was someone out there who would judge him for him, and not on who the media decided to portray him as.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I've fixed the mistake in this chapter, and the one in the summery. Thanks guys.

WARNINGS:  
Mentions of attempted suicide, Character death, Mentioned drug use, and Mild Slash (finally).

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A harsh cough woke Angel up. His head snapped up, found the source and then landed with a thud on his pillow. He sighed, rolling his eyes. Spike was on the ground floor of the apartment, apparently coughing up a lung while reading the paper.

"It's your own fault for smoking, you know." Angel called down. Throwing the doona off the bed, he rolled onto the floor and then slid down the ladder. "Oh, no, don't worry, you didn't wake me." He mumbled under his breath, ignoring the fact he was being ignored.

Crossing the apartment to the Kitchen, Angel noticed that there was a cup of hot tea already sitting on the bench for him. After staring blankly at it for a second or two, he then pointed and opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't mention it," Spike snapped. "Ever."

Angel frowned at Spike's attitude, and realized that for the first time in two days the model had woken up before him. This alone wouldn't be much to capture his interest because as far as Angel was concerned, Spike could wake up at whatever hour he wanted. Even 11:40 like he had the previous nights. The blonde was tense, and for no apparent reason other then his intense interest in reading the newspaper.

Trying not to be obvious, Angel tried to casually ask if Spike was reading anything interesting. The response was "Mate, you could at least try to be subtle." which made Angel clench his fists and blush in both anger and embarrassment.

"I don't know why you decided to hang around, Spike, but you can either drop the attitude or get lost. It's your choice." He eyed the ashtray next to Spike's cup of coffee. "And what have I told you about smoking in here?"

Spike blinked at Angel before grabbing a pack of smokes off the table and storming out. For a second Angel felt a lump in his throat. For some strange reason worried that Spike had opted for the 'get lost' option, but then noticed the leather duster hanging over one of his easels and knew the model would be back.

The newspaper had been left on the bench, and Angel crossed over to read it, not worrying about Spike's privacy since he knew that if the roles were reversed the blonde wouldn't even consider not reading it.

While drug use is definitely climbing in this day an age, people are still shocked by stories of celebrities using and getting caught. Do they do it for the publicity? Well, some do. Others have a reason that could give an insight into the youths of today. William 'Spike' Pratt-

Angel stopped reading and checked the length of the article. It was huge, and although he did enjoy reading, he found that just at the mention of Spike in an article about drugs made him feel sick to his stomach. He was very much against recreational drug use, since he'd had some bad experiences with using, and didn't really want to read much more.

Skimming down the article, he discovered a few statements. '_Teenage clinical depression_' was one, and '_Raised by an overly strict nanny, due to his mother's mental health_' was another. One word in a sentence made him, to his horror, read the whole paragraph against his will.

Darla discovered her eighteen-year-old ward unconscious in their living room. Young William's blood indicated that he had attempted suicide by taking all of his mother's pills. These, along with the amount of recreational drugs in his system, had made death almost inevitable. It vas lucky for him that Drusilla, in a brief and rare show of sanity, had rolled her son onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. After being released from the hospital, Darla had kept William locked in his room for a month, forcing him to detox himself against the doctors' recommendations that he be sent to a rehabilitation centre.

Glad he hadn't eaten anything yet, Angel slowly put the newspaper down and folded it so the article would stop glaring at him. The article, even just the small part he had read, had gone into such detail that it was clear someone close to Spike had spilt his secrets to the press.

It was only then that Angel realized that it was raining and if Spike was where he thought then the younger man would freeze. He grabbed the long jacket and noticed a piece of paper fall out of a pocket. Angel didn't think twice about picking it up and putting it into his own pocket.

Spike was exactly where Angel thought he would be. The model didn't notice anyone was on the roof with him until Angel put a hand on his shoulder. Spike jumped and spun around, swinging his fist as he did. Angel caught it before it hit his jaw and glared at the blonde.

"I thought you could use this." He held the coat out, as a sort of peace offering for earlier.

Spike took it and threw it on quickly. "Thanks." He mumbled, quiet to the point where Angel wasn't sure whether he'd heard or just thought it.

"You're welcome." He said, being only a little bit sarcastic. He saw through the rain that Spike's eyes were bloodshot, and his face and nose were slightly red. Whatever was left of his annoyance seemed to fade rather quickly. "I… um." He hesitated, not knowing how Spike would react to what he wanted to say. "I read the article."

Blue eyes hardened and teeth clenched. A sodden, half smoked cigarette dropped from Spike's fingers. "Really" he ground out.

"Is all of it true, or just most?"

Spike's eyed Angel's soaking wet shirt and gel-free hair, which was starting to go wavy from the exposure to more then a little moisture. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not get pneumonia." He snapped. "I'm going in."

Angel took a step forward and drew himself up to his full hight. Spike found himself thinking that he looked very impressive when he did that. "No." There was an almost animalistic growl in his voice. "I don't know you all that well, but I do know that if we put this off, even just to go down the stairs, you'll find a way to avoid this."

"Looks like you do have a brain hidden behind that massive forehead after all." Spike leaned back, suddenly seeming apathetic to everything. "Yeah, most of it's true. It was Darla's booze and not mum's pills though. She always found it easier to blame everything on someone who had no idea what she was on about."

"Your mum saved you though, so she had some idea of things."

"Yeah. I always suspected she played the 'insane woman' act up a bit." Spike's accent had softened slightly, and Angel couldn't help but notice. "She sounded like she talked nonsense, but there was a twisted logic behind everything she said, and she always looked after me. Better then Darla did anyway."

Angel hesitated before taking a step forward and wrapping his arms around Spike, who stiffened before relaxing into the embrace. "I think you need to get out of the city." Angel mumbled into Spike's bleached hair. "I'll look around for a place where we could go, but I can't afford anything fancy."

Spike discretely wiped his eyes with his sleave, and his nose on Angel's shirt, before pulling out of his new friend's hold. "No one's as nice as you without there being a catch." He said dryly. "What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing." Angel sighed and looked past Spike's head. "We haven't known each other for long, and I don't know much about you, but you seem to have made yourself at home in my apartment already and I get the feeling you can't normally do that very easily." He took a moment to choose his words. "You are the third most infuriating person I know, and no one can make me change moods as quickly as you can."

Pausing to search for words again, Angel became aware he was still holding Spike close to his body. He blushed, and then immediately felt stupid for doing so. "I think there's more to you then what you'd like me to think there is." He concluded, wondering whether anything he'd said in the last five minutes had made sense or not.

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Spike watched Angel sleep. There was something almost hypnotic about the rise and fall of the artist's chest and the occasional hint of movement behind his eyelids.

Too many thoughts were going around the Englishman's head. One was the image of a blushing Angel, and others were along the lines of 'he's right, I need a holiday', 'I wonder how much of the article he read', and 'he looks much less like a pouf without the hairgel'.

Since he had been staying with Angel, he had been feeling less pressured to be someone he wasn't and he really liked it. There was something that he was a bit anxious about, and that was this trip thing that had been mentioned. He was worried that he would overstay his welcome, or maybe cross the line between acquaintance and 'sex buddy'.

Spike knew he definitely wanted to sleep with Angel, but didn't think the other man would go for it if he came out and said 'hey, lets have sex some time'. With people like Angel, who had a reasonable head on their shoulders, getting them to bed was almost an art form.

He placed a hand on Angel's arm and lent over, placing a small kiss on slightly parted lips.

_ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

Angel passed the room, oblivious to Spike's eyes following his every move. His lips moved as he read the letter over again. Spike took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully while trying to read the lips he had kissed last night. He only deciphered one word, which was spoken after the letter had been torn in two. He raised a scared eyebrow.

Grabbing an easel, canvas, and stick of charcoal from different places in the room, Angel hastily drew what seemed to be random lines. Spike blinked. This was the first time he'd really seen the artist actually live up to his title and create some art. Emotions seemed to pour off him and flow through his hand.

Spike noticed the raw passion in Angel's dark eyes, despite the blankness of his face, and felt he should worry about both his safety and Angel's sanity.

It took a while for Angel to calm down and to drop the charcoal, but then he started to gently smudge parts of his creation with his fingers, as his anger changed to sadness. Spike just watched, surprised that his short attention span hadn't made his eyes stray from the other man.

Angel finished and sank to the floor, crossing his legs in an Indian style and crossed his arms. He managed to look vulnerable as well as volatile, so Spike took caution as he approached.

The picture was of Angel's brother, Ford. Well, half of his face, made and surrounded by jagged lines and thick details, which were smudged to make it look three-dimensional. Spike looked at Angel, who looked up with an expression that said he had only just remembered the room occupied more then just himself and an ex-blank surface.

"He died." He said broodingly. "Accidentally overdosed on his pain meds."

Spike nodded, remembering when his mother had died of the same thing. "It's hard." He sat next to Angel. "Who had to write the letter?"

"My mother." Angel answered blankly. "It was barely legible, so my stepfather took over. He didn't seem disturbed by it at all." he added as emotions finally showed themselves in his voice, but they vanished with a sigh and were replaced with fatigue. "They want me to come down there as soon as possible."

"Well, you did say you were going to take me out of the city, so I'll come with." He patted Angel on the back before standing and grabbing his coat. "First, we need to get right drunk." He bounded out the door, all of a sudden full of unexplained energy at the thought of alcohol. "C'mon. I'll drive."

Angel snapped back to reality. "Spike, come back here." He yelled, not wanting to move from his spot on the floor. Mentally he was feeling much better, as he had expressed and gotten out every major emotion on the canvas, but physically he was just drained. Spike came back and stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt.

Taking in the 'power stance', as he had dubbed it, and the determined look in Spike's eyes he knew the fact that he didn't really drink wouldn't be accepted as a reasonable excuse.

"Just let me get my coat." He sighed.

Spike beamed at him. "Bloody brilliant." He gave Angel the thumbs up.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Let my just say right off the bat that I have nothing against Harmony nor Anya.  
In advance, sorry for any false facts. I did research, but there were lots of different things said.  
Breaks aren't fixed yet, so **_- -_**s will be good enough until I can think of something better. Damn to hell.

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Sitting at the bar of the Fruit Bowl, Angel nursed a bottle of some type of bubby citrus drink while drawing pictures on the bar with the small drops of water that had slid down the sides of the glass. Willow watched him from where she was serving someone else a drink.

When Spike had come in, requesting that the music be turned up and the lights dimmed, she had assumed that he was the one in the bad mood. This shadowed figure who had followed him in, seemed to have contradicted her assumption. Although it seemed to be less broody now he was tipsy.

Willow walked over so she was opposite him, and he looked up. "You want another candy water, or are you ready to switch over to the hard stuff now?"

"NO." Angel said quickly. "I mean… I can't have any hard stuff." He toned his voice down so it was softer. "I can get drunk enough with this, so I'll just stick with this." There was only a slight slur in his voice, but Willow realized that it was shaking more from emotion then liquor.

She smiled cheekily, on a mission to get his mood off whatever was bothering him and onto something else. "Spike tells me he's staying with you." She said while raising her eyebrow suggestively.

Angel nodded, not catching the innuendo. "Yeah, the press is hanging around his place so he needs somewhere else to stay."

"Actually," she smiled innocently, "he has a secret pad he usually uses."

"Pad?"

"Yeah, you know, a place. It's slang…" Willow blushed a bit. "Old slang, but slang none the less." Leaning over the bench, she dropped her voice. "You know, I think it's because he likes you."

Angel choked on his drink, causing Willow to grin cheekily. "W-What? NO. I mean, I-I." He shut his mouth and flushed. Willow giggled again, she had thought he would be a bit naïve but not that he'd react this entertainingly.

"I was joking, doofus." She lent over the bar so she could whack him playfully on the arm. "You do know he's bi though, right?"

"Yeah. I know." He looked over at Spike, who was grinding his body against another man's. Angel noticed the fluid movements coming from Spike and dismissed the flirty behaviour as the blonde just being himself. Angel slid off the stool and swayed slightly. He turned and ended up getting tangled in the chair.

When he finally stood, Angel flushed embarrassedly. "I'm j-just going to the bathroom."

"I'll stay here and guard your candy water." She laughed as she watched him leave. She had made conversation with him when he had been sober, and he seemed like a nice guy. "Spike!" she called out over the music. "Come here." She waved him over, and he gave the man he was dancing with a long and sexy kiss before complying.

"Yeah." He slurred.

"Spike," Willow stared innocently. "Angel's really nice isn't he? He's got a whole 'tall dark and handsome' thing going for him."

"Yeah. 'E's real sexy with 'e's man o' mystery persh… perls'naelty…"

"Personality?"

"Tha's the one." He didn't notice Willow trying not to laugh at his drunken pirate accent. "'E's very… Beddable."

Willow's eyes widened. "Bad Spike! Bad, bad Spike!" She grabbed Spike by his shirt and dragged him across the bar so she could slap him properly. He tried to protest, but she cut him off. "Don't you dare take advantage of him, don't you dare. He too good and pure and… and decent to be used and spat out by you."

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_Harmony gently laid a bag of shopping down on the bench of her small apartment. She tried not to make much noise in case her boyfriend was asleep. Unfortunately he wasn't, and what was even more unfortunate was that her boyfriend was drunk. This wasn't unusual._

_"Angelus." She said meekly. "I thought you'd gone out."_

_Her boyfriend, who preferred to be identified by his last name, was standing in the doorway clothed in nothing but leather pants. Angelus slammed the bottle of scotch on the bench next to the shopping._

_"What's that?" He spat._

_"It's shopping. You know, it's what you buy so you have things to eat." She said, as if talking to a child. She had learnt long ago that if she were feisty then he would be easier on her. If she was compliant he would taunt her to get her wound up, and then beat her down. If she was already fighting back then it cut out the first step._

_"Ah, yes, I understand that," He said, his voice deeper and softer then it normally was; smoothed out by the burning alcohol that had slid down his throat earlier that day, "but what I don't understand, is why you bought these." He reached into the bag and pulled out a bandage and some cream._

_"Well, why do you think I bought them?" she snapped, bracing herself for the attack._

_He smiled in a way, which in the animal world, was normally accompanied by several rows of serrated, pointy teeth and an equally pointed fin. Taking a few fluid, catlike steps he pinned her against the wall, pressing his body against hers._

_It wasn't sexual in anyway at all, nor was it threatening which was probably why she found it so intimidating. It was a simple reminder of where she was, what she couldn't get out of, and that he owned her to the point where she wouldn't know what to do if he ever left her._

_"You deserve it, you know. Every mark I leave on that body," he pressed against her a little more, "should be kept exactly where I left it. I am an artist, and you are my canvas. Nothing more."_

_Angelus took a step back, removing the pressure from her body, but only leaving a small gap between them. Harmony got that familiar feeling of being alone, with no way to hold herself up but a wall with no grips. She wanted his body back against hers. She also wanted to act out, but couldn't bring herself to do it._

_He just chucked at her, and she got the feeling that every emotion she'd felt had been planned. This was what was killing her; the control he had over every single thing in her life. She couldn't leave him though, and they both knew it._

_He smirked, turning his back on her. "Get rid of it before I come back." He commanded before grabbing a suitcase from a shelf and walking out._

_Once he'd left the dingy building, Angelus lit up a cigarette and walked down the street with his hands in his pockets and his chin up high. He walked around until he found a back alley, but it wasn't like the other ones._

_Angelus refused to have sex with Harmony. He knew that if there were no sex in their 'relationship' then his attitude towards her would hurt even more. So he'd picked up another bottle of scotch from a shop, and chain-smoked a bunch of cigarettes before coming to the alley of some of the most beautiful prostitutes in the city._

_There she was, another of Angelus's projects. A prostitute with blonde ringlets, and the only alley whore who had her natural hair, had been Angelus's hooker of choice. She was proud, and thick-skinned, and hid her excessive fragility. To top it off, when they had sex he could see in her eyes the contempt she held for both her job and all males._

_She didn't use her real name, but no prostitute he knew had the same name on her belt or necklace as on their birth certificate or drivers licence. She called herself Anyanka, so said the tattoo on her butt and the plastic, silver dog tags around her neck._

_He paid her more then her normal customers, and went into the building to which the alley was positioned in front of through the back door, of course._

_In her room Anyanka lay on the bed and pleasured herself while Angelus watched from the chair at then end of the bed. After that Angelus would ride her, pulling a knife from a holster up his sleeve, which he carried for a number of reasons. He would then use the knife to cut the palm of her hand and then come while watching the blood ooze from her flesh._

_It was mechanical, and played out routinely, mainly because Angelus didn't come for the sex… at least not **just** for the sex._

_From a plastic lined pocket of his jacket, the only garment he was wearing, he produced a chloroform soaked cloth. Placing it to her mouth, she breathed in and it worked it's twisted magic on her. She never fought it, because when she snapped out of it she could never see anything out of place, there was just a bandage around her hand._

_Angelus sat down in the chair, pulled a sketchbook from his suitcase and turned to a page with an uncompleted sketch of Anyanka. It would have been a beautiful sketch, if it weren't drawn in her blood with a fountain pen._

_It was her, arching up in the way she did when she came. With her hand between her legs and her hair a mess, she really was quite beautiful, and detailed._

_Looking over at Anyanka, Angelus noticed something he hadn't before. Her hand was still bleeding when it had usually stopped by now. He put the sketchpad, as well as the pen, away before standing and approaching her. She was paler, and had a slight sheen of sweat._

_He slowly put two and two together; chloroform could damage the kidneys and increase white blood cells._

_He smirked, liking the thought that he was poisoning her from the inside out. He lifted the scotch bottle and took another mouthful of the burning liquid._

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Spike looked over at Angel, whose eyes were fluttering open.

The other man groaned as he was pulled from his dream. Wait. He frowned as he tried to remember what it was, and came to the conclusion that it was a memory, and a horrific memory at that. He had made her sick and destroyed the lives of two women.

It was lucky Spike had pulled the car over when he'd seen Angel was waking up. It was also lucky that when he retched, Spike quickly lent over, flung the passenger door open and helped Angel out of the car.

While he violently puked, Angel was vaguely aware of an arm holding him steady, and a hand rubbing his back between his shoulder blades.

"You a'right, mate?"

"Spike?"

"Yeah." He gently straightened Angel up.

"We're in a car."

Spike couldn't help but laugh at honest confusion. "Yeah, we're in a car… I figured that you'd want to be with your family, so we're heading out to Sunnydale. I packed some of your clothes." He had the decency to blush, but Angel didn't really notice.

"There are some other things I need." Said Angel, almost immediately. "The portrait of Ford, some art stuff, and a box." He leant his head back and closed his eyes.

"You're not going to puke again, are you?"

"It's in the bottom draw of my bedside table, with a dragon carved on the top." He said, referring to the box he never travelled without. Spike, though completely in the dark as to why, agreed to return to Angel's apartment. While turning the car in a sharp U-turn he tried to remember at what point he had misplaced his selfishness.

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_Angelus opened his eyes and immediately felt confused. He had been drinking, so logically he should be hungover. He saw the answer as to why when he blinked the sleep away from his eyes. He had an IV drip in, and as the smell of disinfectant started to assault his nose, he groaned._

_"Liam? Have you woken up?"_

_He rolled his head to the other side and spotted Jenny Calender, sitting in a chair with a four year old asleep at her feet. She gave him a small, yet genuine smile and put a hand on his shoulder._

_"Hi, mum."_

_Her smile brightened "Hey, sweetie." They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again, and broke the tension. "What have you done to yourself?" She asked cautiously, with a tinge of disappointment colouring her vowels. Angelus closed his eyes and Jenny saw he was intent on not answering the question, so she continued filling the silence._

_"Can you believe it's taken me four years to track you down, even with private investigators working for that entire time? You haven't gone to the hospital before now, or to the doctors or pharmacists. You've been looking after yourself." She frowned slightly. "You have been looking after yourself, haven't you apart from the alcohol thing?"_

_"Yeah, mum, I have." He opened his eyes and looked at the sleeping boy. "Who's he?" Angelus asked, with honest curiosity and confusion in his voice._

_Sadness shadowed her eyes for a second as she looked at the steadily breathing lump of four year old. "When you left, a week after your father died, I was three months pregnant." The look of a mothers love crossed her face " This is your little brother, Alexander Harrison Angelus."_

_"He's got dad's curls."_

_Jenny bent down and searched in a material bag, but Angelus noticed she was also taking the opportunity to compose herself. She retrieved a box with a dragon carved on the lid. Inside it contained her greatest passion, and it was something that she had only shared with Liam and her late husband._

_"I'm getting remarried." She whispered. "He doesn't like things like these. I could keep them hidden, but I think you need them more then I do. They're all recharged and cleansed, each in its own silk pouch." She looked up at him, a slight look of fear on her face. "Do you still-"_

_"Yes. To whatever that question was." He smiled and sat up when she pulled out two pouches. "You can have them all, but I think you need these two at the moment. Calming, uplifting, innocence, creativity, purpose…" She trailed off._

_"Aquamarine." He said._

_"You remember." She handed over both the pouches. "The other's Citrine."_

_"Cleanses the organs of poisons, promotes emotional clarity and self-discipline."_

**_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_**

That was the last day he went by the name Angelus. He started behaving sensibly and almost never got on anyone's bad side afterwards, earning him the nickname 'Angel'. He stayed and re-bonded with his family before moving back to LA.

He had kept in contact, but it would be nice to see them all again in person.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Just going to point something out so you can all acknowledge my brilliance (yeah right); all of Angel's brothers, in the show, all had a thing for Buffy at one point or another… Not all at the same time though… I'm just pointing out pointless facts, don't mind me.

Thanks to my beta and to everyone who reviewed. Hope it's worth the wait.

* * *

Angel's mother dragged him away from his brothers and up the stairs, leaving Spike to the wolves so to speak. Jenny wrapped her arms around her eldest and gave him another hug as he rubbed circles on her back. 

Sniffing discretely in a subtle attempt to clean herself up, Jenny pulled back and smiled at Angel. "Thank you for coming. I know you must have been busy, but it means a lot to me, and to the boys. Quentin's a good husband, but he's not cut out for being a father."

Angel nodded, but agreed with only half of her last statement. She sighed tiredly, and Angel bit his tongue to stop himself from questioning Quentin's adequacy as a husband. Instead he pulled her into another hug. "It'll be okay mum." He whispered into her dark hair.

"I don't know what I'd do without you." She mumbled. Her shoulders were shaking and Angel held her steady while she tried not to cry. They were both tense with emotion before she pulled away, immediately making Angel wish to be safe in his mother's arms again.

"You need something to eat, and good sleep," Angel told her, before pulling some stones out of his pocket, "and these." He placed the silk wrapped crystals in her hand and closed her fingers around them. "Don't take them out here. Hide them from Quentin."

"Lapis stones?" she asked, searching her memory for which stones would help in this sort of situation.

"Yeah, And Rose Quartz." Angel looked down the hallway and at the many doors coming off it. "I got the message you left on my phone. I think I can get her to talk." He smiled sadly. "Getting her out of her room is another thing all together though."

Jenny nodded as she wiped the stray tears from her face. "Of course, you can only try." She gestured to the hallway. "You know where her room is so I'll let you get to it. I'll ask the twins to set up somewhere for your friend to sleep." She wiped her cheeks again with the heel of her hand, just to make sure she was presentable for their guest, before going back down the stairs.

Angel walked down the hall and stopped at a door with a small metal sign that read '_Lizzy's Room_' in colourful letters. It had been there for years and was in no hurry to be taken down even though the room's occupant had far outgrown it.

Out of politeness Angel knocked on the door before entering, even though he was planning on going in regardless of the answer _if_ she was going to even answer.

The room was fairly large and was dominated by a double bed covered in pastel colours. Lying on the bed was a blond teenager, who was reading a book of some sorts and had a sandwich halfway to her mouth, but seemed too engrossed with the novel to bring it the rest of the distance.

"Buffy?" Angel asked, drawing her attention by using the nickname that everyone else refused to use. She looked up and a small smile tugged at her lips, but vanished before Angel could be sure it had even been there. "It's good to see you're at least eating." He lamely started, mentally kicking himself afterwards.

She looked at her sandwich as if it was the first time she was seeing it. The grief that had settled in Angel felt more like lead now then it had before. Buffy had always been sort of ditzy, but never to the point where she wouldn't know that she had been eating a sandwich. Always the bouncy and happy one in the family, and seeing her like this seemed to put a lot of Angel's own feelings into perspective.

"I know you don't want to talk to anyone about how you feel, or about anything else for that matter," he added as an afterthought, cutting straight to the point, not wanting to see his only sister like this for longer then necessary, "so I'm just going to tell you how I feel instead. Is that okay with you?"

Buffy's eyes saddened with a flicker of hesitance and thinly veiled curiosity. She nodded while marking her page and setting the book aside. Straightening up and crossing her legs and arms, she put on a defensive expression and looked at him.

Angel sighed wearily. He could still remember himself at eleven, receiving the news that he had a new baby sister. Up to that point the Angelus children had consisted of exclusively males, so the announcement of a female amongst the ranks had sent shockwaves through the family tree.

Elizabeth 'Buffy' Angelus had been so innocent and pure, and Angel had missed out the transition from a sweet kid to a completely hormonal teenager. Needles to say, it was just another thing he regretted from his time as 'Angelus'.

"I was eighteen when our father died." He started softly. "I didn't know what to think. Life had been easy up 'till then. I would tutor talented high school kids in art from Monday to Wednesday I'd have the next two days for myself and my art, and then work at The Bronze on weekends." He said referring to the local 'hangout area'.

He didn't stop to marvel the fact he could still recall his routine from so long ago. Buffy nodded for him to continue.

"When dad died, it threw everything out of whack. I couldn't find the will to do anything anymore, and I'm still not completely sure why. I felt… Abandoned, I suppose is the best word for it. So I left, thinking that if there was no one to abandon me then I would never have to feel that way again"

Angel hunched his shoulders and took a shaky breath. He didn't really want to go into what he'd done after leaving. She had grown up since he'd last saw her but she was still young in his eyes, so he bit his tongue as tears stung his eyes and his gut churned. He had never been good at putting emotions into words, and these feeling were some huge ones that were impossible not to under-describe.

He closed his eyes, both wanting and not wanting Buffy to see the tears shining in them. A sympathetic voice, rough from past tears, rang through the room.

"It's different with Ford though."

"Yeah," he responded with a voice thick with emotion. "I've failed him. I could have been here helping him try alternative methods." For a second an ugly look flashed across his face. "I bet Quentin made him stick with the heavy meds. Fucking son of a whore."

Buffy blinked, suddenly taken back at Angel's anger since she had never heard him swear before.

Putting his head in his hands,. Angel sighed as the anger retreated back into him like a snake in its hole. "I don't know what the hell to do."

"I'm scared."

Angel moved up the bed towards Buffy so he could pull her into a comforting hug. "You're not alone."

* * *

"Why are you on my bed?" Angel demanded to know from the bleach blond who was making himself comfortable on the double bed. "It's _my_ bed!" he whined, sounding somewhat like a spoilt child wanting a lollipop. Honestly, he didn't care how he sounded since he was emotionally drained and just wanted to sleep… on a bed! 

"I am not sleeping on that thing," Spike waved his hand at the mattress they'd made up for him on the floor.

Angel covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and rotated them in an attempt to release the pressure that was building in his skull behind them. Fatigue washed over him before he could entertain the thought of pushing Spike off the bed for long. Dropping to his knees he crawled onto the mattress, ignoring Spike's shocked look at Angel backing out of the fight so quickly.

He didn't care that it was uncomfortable, the day had left him with only one thought rattling around in his head; sleep. That night he could have slept in a pile of nettles and not noticed, and inevitably failed to notice the two hands that situated a pillow under his head, along with the blankets that were placed on him.

"Sleep well, pet."

* * *

In the darkness, Angel tried to fight off the morning with all his might, but that didn't stop consciousness from washing over him. It took a moment or two before he became aware of the gentle shaking that resonated through his body. 

"Oi, Angel, wake up."

"M'up." He managed to mumble. His body felt light as if he were floating, while his eyelids seemed to be fused shut and the only thing he was really aware of. Vaguely, he realized that he'd been interrupted from some sort of dream, Angel searched the vastness that was his mind but couldn't come up with any images other then of him choking a blonde model for needlessly waking him up.

"About time too! It's past twelve, mate, sleeping in's supposed to be my thing."

A panic alarm went off in Angel's head. Twelve! He'd slept through half the day; he hadn't even done that when he was a teenager. And trying to move his limbs was clearly not a good thing at the moment. As soon as his brain sent the message to his appendages to do something, they seemed to weigh more then they possibly could.

Spike looked down at the man who was slowly uncurling from the foetal position and stretching out. Much to his dislike, Spike had woken early that morning and wasn't able to go back to sleep.

After helping Jenny make breakfast, Spike had spent a while sitting uncomfortable in the lounge room, feeling very much like an outsider even though he had only been watching T.V. By the time he'd gotten so uncomfortable he had to retreat back to the bedroom, he had almost finished his whole pack of smokes. The box had long been finished in the comfort of the room, and then discarded out the window, before Spike had woken Angel.

Angel blinked his eyes open and looked up blearily at the peroxided menace. He closed his dark eyes, yawned and stretched his arms above his head, causing the blanket to fall down to his waist. Spike drank in the sight and tilted his head to the side while imagining the glorious body withering beneath him and his lips moving slowly to Angel's nip…

"I gotta get out of this bloody house." Said Spike, more to himself then to Angel but it wasn't interpreted that way.

Propping himself up on his elbows he gave the younger man his sleepiest glare. "You woke me up so I could walk you? Spike, your name must have gone to your head, because you're not a dog." He flopped back down. "You're a big boy, go walk yourself."

Spike threw his arms up in frustration. "Well I don't exactly know my way around the place. Took me ten minutes to find the bathroom this morning. Kept running into bloody cupboards."

After rolling away from the cockney blonde, Angel pulled the covers over his head. He just seemed to have almost no emotions left; they hadn't been completely spent but they had definitely been working overtime. He just wanted to stay in bed for as long as possible.

After waiting around for a few more minutes, Spike understood the hint. He did, however, chose to half ignore it and hung around in the room, lying backwards on the bed with his feet on the headboard.

Angel closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything, although that seemed impossible. He was able to turn his thoughts away from anything immediately depressing, but they then always floated back to the same thing; Spike. They went from 'I didn't know he could be this quiet', to 'I wonder if shutting up caused him physical pain', and then finally ended with 'god, I feel so alone without his voice'.

"Spike?" He said softly, as to not alarm the blond by shattering the silence too violently.

"Yeah?", came the bored reply.

Angel rolled onto his back. "You want to go get some air?"

Smirking, Spike hung the top part of his body over the edge of the bed. "Thought you'd never ask, mate." He jumped off the bed and offered a hand to Angel to help him up. "C'mon, pet, let's go for a walk."

Allowing himself to be helped up, Angel shook his head slightly to clear his still groggy head and grabbed a shirt off a chair at the desk. He needed a shower first, so running a hand though his hair, he told Spike to wait for him in the backyard and they'd take a few back shortcuts.

The water felt good against his skin. Each droplet seemed to cleanse him and he could almost physically feel each muscle loosen beneath the heat. It was as hot as he could take it as he tried to use it to relax the heavy feeling in his stomach as it was doing to everything else. When his thoughts turned to Spike, it eased. The blonde was bloody obnoxious, but so hard to get out of his head.


End file.
